


The Green-Eyed Bandit

by Cthulhu777



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not Hunters, Alternate Universe - Not Related, Alternate Universe - Prison, Awesome Bobby, Bi-Curious Dean, Bottom Sam, Bullying, Dean Being an Asshole, Eventual Romance, Good Cop Bad Cop, Gun Violence, Homophobic Language, Lawyer Sam, M/M, Poor Dean, Prisoner Dean, Prisoner John, Robbery, Sam is a Little Shit, Sexually Frustrated Sam, Swearing, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-08-12 22:24:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7951507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cthulhu777/pseuds/Cthulhu777
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Wesson: 17 year old, high school senior, impeccable student, inheritor to his successful father's law practicing firm, and all around mild-tempered teen is dared to rob a gas station. Tired of being bullied for being the 'nice guy' Sam reluctantly agrees. But there's two problems to this: Sam's never shot a gun before and there's some other guy robbing the same gas station.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Idiotic Genius

Banner by the lovely[ BowleggedBeauty_Overdose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BowleggedBeauty_Overdose/pseuds/BowleggedBeauty_Overdose). 

 

* * *

 

Sam Wesson is a young man of thought, not a young man of action. And he's tired of this. He's a 17 year old—going to be 18 year old—high school senior with impeccable grades. He's never done anything even remotely wrong in his life. No school fights, no alcohol, no drugs, no breaking curfew, no stealing, no sex—still a regrettable virgin—hell, up until a year ago Sam had been a measly 5'4” and 115lbs cutesy kid. Luckily for him during last summer he underwent probably one of the most painful growth spurts possible: he shot up an entire foot in height and, albeit still on the gangly side, gained almost 65lbs.

 

This was enough to get his classmates to stop physically bullying him. Now psychologically he was still viewed as that sweet-natured, goody two-shoes, son of a rich lawyer, would never do nothing wrong, little boy. And this fact brings him to here...

 

He was dared—no, he was doubled dog dared—to rob the late night cashier at their local gas station. And as he stood outside he couldn't help but think that despite all his intellect he was an utter fool. But he wouldn't dare to back down now.

 

No, no. He had brought his audience with him. Right now, three fellow classmates were sitting in his black Hummer watching his every move. Waiting...for him to either back down or to run out with a bag full of money. And if he backed down now he would graduate as the high school pussy of the year. Besides, his father was not only a lawyer but head of the town's law firm. He could get him out of trouble right?

 

_Right!_

 

Or...at least Sam's just gonna go with that happy thought right about now.

 

The gas station door jangles softly when Sam pushes it open, alerting the cashier. Sam moves to the back of the station without looking at him.

 

_Act natural._

 

He isn't balking—perhaps just stalling a little—might as well grab himself a Diet Coke while he's panics and plans (mostly panics) about how in the actual hell to go about this. It's when he's leaning into the cooler that he notices that he isn't alone in this station. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a blonde man maybe a few years older than him thumbing through magazines an isle over, near the front.

 

_Well it's just one other guy._

 

Sam lets the cooler door fall closed and heads towards the counter.

 

He sets the 16 oz. up, reaching under his coat on the pretense of getting his wallet as the cashier wordlessly punches the register. To the right and slightly behind him, the other guy slides the magazine back onto it's rack. Sam's hand closes around the gun that he had stolen out of his father's desk drawer, the cash register _pings_ open, and right when Sam is drawing his gun he hears the safety click off another one. The gun appears in his peripherals vision, the color drains from the cashier's face, and the voice behind him demands,

“Gimme the money!”

 

This is the most infuriating freaking thing that Sam has ever heard in his entire life. Of course he _had_ to attempt to rob the one gas station that is being robbed by some other guy!

 

For the second time tonight, Sam doesn't think logically. He whips around, pulling his own gun under the other guy's arm so that they are both suddenly staring down a short barrel. He was obviously expected to flinch, because some amount of shock flickers across the blonde's face.

 

“Back off!” Sam shouts, “I'm robbing this store!” Because...honestly, he was about going to rob the store.

 

The other man glares at him. “The fuck you are! I had my gun out first, bitch, now get outta my way!”

 

And Sam's nerves got the better of him. The other guy had a gun on him for Christ sake! So logically Sam did the only thing he could think of to save his own life. He pulled the trigger.

 

Of course Sam's aim isn't as good as he thinks it is and the other guy is faster. The bullet only grazes the other guy's shoulder as he lurches back into a shelf, upsetting the chips and candy bars, and he fires his own gun. Sam dodges out of the way, down an isle, and once he's out of sight, he looks back towards the register, mouth open in disbelief.

 

“Jerk!” he shouts at his assailant, “You shot my diet coke!”

 

The other guy lets out a bark of laughter and shoots a can of ravioli off the shelf above Sam's head.

 

Unheeded by either of his would-be robbers, the cashier sets a paper bag full of money on the counter, praying they'll take it and leave, and dives for cover. He mashes the alarm button as the gas station explodes in a volley of bullets, jars and bags and glass shattering in the midst of it all. Setting behind where the blonde man is taking cover, the slushie machine takes quite a beating before Sam finally empties his clip. Aiming between the shelves, Sam pulls the trigger four more times before he realizes this and swears.

“SHIT, man! I'm out of bullets!” He calls, dropping the empty clip.

 

Sam doesn't have another one.

Sam just informed a crazy armed burglar that he's now unarmed.

Sam doesn't deserve to be graduating top of his class.

Sam is an idiot!

 

“I dunno why y'sound so upset, you can't aim for shit, anyways,” the other guy laughs light-heartily, and stands up, his back to the shelf.

 

Sam doesn't know what to do. He's ducking, out of ammo, observing closely as the blonde man is staring at him over the top of some busted potato chip bags. The guy still has his gun drawn and from what Sam can tell he can aim, unlike himself.

 

The blonde steps into view in Sam's isle. Sam shrieks—actually shrieks because he wasn't expecting the man to do that at all—and falls flat on his rump, defenseless. So for the third time tonight Sam does the first thing that pops into his head, he throws a can of icing at his opponent praying that the can will somehow hit the blonde's gun and knock it free from his hands. It doesn't of course. The can misses the blonde by almost a foot and bangs loudly off of the dilapidated slushie machine.

 

 _Damn!!!_ If Sam lives through this he really _is_ going towork on his aim.

 

“Dude, what the fuck are you doin'?” the blonde shouts, exasperated, standing tall again and raising his gun.

 

As if to show off his marksmanship skills the blonde fires his gun. Purposefully missing Sam's head by a few centimeters. The bullet penetrates a can of icing which splatters all over the back of Sam's hair.

 

Sam's visibly shaking now and he's pretty sure he's second away from peeing his freaking pants. Sam raises his hands up in surrender. Maybe if he's tactful the blonde will let him escape with his life. “I was robbing the store,” Sam admits because, well he _was_ trying to rob the store.

 

The blonde is glowering. He lowers his gun so it's even with Sam's forehead.

 

 _This is it._ Sam is going to be killed because he's an idiot with a full ride scholarship to Stanford University.

 

Sam squeezes his eyes shut tightly.

The blonde pulls the trigger.

A familiar clicking sound is heard.

_Out of ammo._

Sam flinches. His eyes fluttering open with vigor.

 

His assailant hunched over him. His demeanor changing from killer to playful. “I'm just screwin' with you dude. I wouldn't of actually killed you but you _really_ shoul' of seen ur face,” the blonde busted into a full blown fit of laughter.

 

Sam's pretty sure his face is as red as a tomato. Sam is embarrassed and...and...angry...

No! He's fucking pissed! What kind of sick monster plays a joke like that?? Sam grabs a second can and chucks it as hard as he can at the blonde.

 

This time the can hits the blonde in the gut with enough force to knock him backwards a few steps. A variety of swear words escape the blonde's mouth as he falls back on his rump as well.

 

Sam's nostrils flare.

The blonde's poisonous emerald eyes narrow.

They both burst into a fit of laughter.

 

Over the resounding giggles, they both hear the police sirens approaching.

 

**tbc**

 


	2. Be Nice Boys

Red and blue lights are flashing through the shattered glass.

_Caught!_

They are _so_ caught!

 

The blonde man looses some of his nerve, now, throwing an anxious glance towards the shattered outside windows before getting on his hands and knees to duck down behind one of the remaining shelves. Three police cars are pulling up alongside Sam's black Hummer; most of the officers converge on the gas station door, guns at the ready, but one of them stops to take notice of the plates on the car and waves his comrades down. Hand on his gun, the officer pushes open the door first.

“Sam!” he calls, surveying the war zone and the cashier that tentatively reappears, shaking all over.

 

Groaning and struggling to push himself up off the fallen shelf, Sam mutters an anxious _“crap”_ under his breath as he stands.

_Forget about being caught his dad is going to barbecue him after Bobby guts him for this!_

“Yeah?” Sam responds, timidly.

 

The officers sighs incredulously, “What in the _hell_ are you doing you idjit?”

 

“I was robbing the store,” Sam admits because what the hell else was he suppose to say. _Oh hi Bobby, I was just laying here in this isle with this gun because...Lucifer made me do it. Yeah...maybe he should of blamed it all on the devil?_

 

“But you're rich, Sam,” the officer says, “What are you robbing it for?”

 

Sam simply shrugs his shoulders not trusting his mouth to speak the appropriate words right now.

 

Still crouched behind the shelf, the blonde regards Sam with stunned indignity, “Man, you know cops _AND_ you're mother fuckin' rich?” He almost sounds angry by the time he finishes the question.

 

Sam turns to look at the blonde and gets his first real good look at him. He's tall—maybe an inch or two shorter than Sam—he's built, and although his face is a little bit dirty the guy is movie star handsome.

“Yeah,” Sam answers the blonde hesitantly, “That's Bobby.”

 

“Sam, who're you talking to?” Bobby asks, exasperated.

 

Sam points, and the blonde man flinches, swearing. Bobby draws level with them both before he can move, notices him, and the gun he's still holding. That's also when the cashier pipes up to an accompanying officer and tells the whole agonizing story.

 

The blonde man doesn't go quietly, but in the end their guns are confiscated, and they both wind up in the back of the police car while the mess is sorted out; but Sam is the one out of the two that is not read his Miranda rights, and is not handcuffed, and this is because he is a Wesson and Sam's daddy was the one that allowed Bobby Singer—chief of police—to hunt down and extract revenge against the one who murdered Bobby's deceased wife, Karen. After Sam's dad was through with the press, Bobby is made to look like a national hero; even was awarded a metal. Cause, yeah, Sam may have known about this and he also might of known that he would walk away free cause of this.

 

Bobby holds the car door open while he gets in, yelling, “Sammy! So help me God I ought' wring your friggin' neck for this! This is your one and only free-bie! Ever do something like this again and I'mma drag your sorry ass down to the station and shoot you myself before throwing you into a prison cell with a serial rapist!”

 

The blonde man snickered.

Sam's eyes grew to be the size of quarters.

Bobby turned around barking at Sam, “Do you understand me?”

Sam's jaw was agape as he rapidly shook his head _'yes.'_

 

Bobby held out his hand, eyes narrowing in on Sam, “Good. Now that we clearly understand each other, give me the keys to your Hummer so I can clean up your mess.”

Sam rapidly dug the keys out of his coat pocket.

Bobby takes them and leans into the back seat, pointing between Sam and the blonde man.

“Be nice, boys,” he says and shuts them in.

 

Sam crosses his arms, and slumps back, putting his knees up against the seat in front of him. He shifts to look at his companion, who has his forehead pressed against the glass, staring up at the gas station sign. Neither of them speak for a long moment, and it's the blonde who breaks the silence.

“So you're a Wesson,” he says, glancing over.

 

Sam raises a shoulder again and leans over, extending a hand, “Samuel Wesson—call me Sam.”

 

“Dean Smith,” the man says, mildly surprised by the show of politeness and moving both cuffed hands in order to shake. He gestures when he leans back into his own seat. “So what're you robbin' the store for if you ain't need the cash?”

 

Sam smiles timidly, recrossing his arms.

“I was dared by some guys at my school,” he admits.

 

Looking out the window, Dean chuckles, “Now that I believe.” He nods towards the Hummer. “That your ride?”

 

“Sort of,” Sam evades, unwilling to admit that he swiped it out of his father's garage without permission. He sits up to take a better look around the parking lot. “Where's yours?”

 

Dean laughs.

“Man, my ride is what got me into this situation in the first place; black 1967 Chevrolet Impala, 327, 4-barrel, V-8 engine, automatic, 4-dr, Hardtop. She'll be a real beauty when I fix her up. But I need cash to do that...In short, I walked my fuckin' ass here.”

 

Sam isn't into cars. He has no idea what kind of car that is so he focuses on the last part of Dean's statement.

“So you don't have anybody to give you a ride or nothing?”

 

Sam doesn't quite know why he asks this. Doesn't know why he suddenly cares about some guy who almost shot him and perhaps it was just out of mere curiosity. However, from the worn state of Dean's clothes added to the fact that he was robbing the store for three hundred dollars tops Sam put two and two together. Dean was poor, possibly homeless, if he did have a family it was broken, and he didn't have many close friends if any... _Great_ now Sam's experiencing empathy for a homeless burglar.

 

“Nooo,” Dean drawls, amused, and jangles his handcuffs.

 

“So where are you going now?” Sam immediately asks because suddenly Sam feels like a worse person than he already is. Sam is rich. Sam attempts to rob a gas station because of a stupid dare. Sam gets all charges dropped against himself because he's rich, his daddy is a lawyer, and he knows practically all of the police force. On the other hand, Dean robs the gas station because he actually needs the money and Dean is the one going to be charged with all of this...Sam is an such a horrible person.

 

“Oh, this _is_ fuckin' hilarious,” Dean retorts.

“T'jail, mother fucker, where do you think I'm goin'?” Dean asks, half-laughing. He sits up, away from the seat, and starts with his thumb, ticking off fingers while he recounts, “Attempted armed robbery. Two counts of assault with a deadly weapon. Carrying an unregistered handgun. Assaulting an officer. Resisting arrest. Vandalism.” He pauses, holding the seven digits aloft, and then gestures furiously with them at Sam. “And on top of all 'at shit, a fuckin' Wesson! They'll put me under the Goddamn jail for shootin' at a Wesson.”

 

Dean shakes his head, flops back into his seat, and stares back out the window. Folded in on his own side of the car, Sam frowns, chewing this over.

“I shot at you first,” he points out after thinking about it for awhile.

 

“Yeah, and your aim is fuckin' bad as hell, dude, you need t'work on 'at shit if you gonna go around shootin' people.”

 

“Speaking of aim, it was crazy when you shot that can of icing right above my head.”

 

“ _Yeah?_ That's cuz you threw one of them cans at my head,” Dean scoffs, “The fuck even possesses you t'throw somethin' at somebody with a gun?”

 

Sam's glad he can't see his reflection right about now because he's pretty sure he might be blushing. That _was_ really stupid of him.

 

“It was survival instinct,” Sam insisted.

_Lame excuse._

 

“Wasn't no _survival instincts,_ mother fucker, in fact if I had been some sort of murderous monsta you'ld be deader than fuckin' disco tapes.”

 

Sam shrugs, “Well that's just your opinion.”

Dean jolts harshly, clearly agitated by Sam's retort. “An opinion isn't an opinion if the opinion spoken is factual!” Dean insists.

 

Sam's pretty sure that opinions cannot be facts because they're opinions. But now that the sensible part of Sam's brain is working again, he can tell that Dean might have a bad temper and Sam doesn't want to go on a kill list of his crazy, neighborly, homeless burglar. “Okay,” Sam simply agrees for diplomacy's sake.

After a pause Sam adds, “I'm sorry you're being charged with all this.”

 

Dean's glaring turns from assertive to almost _hungry_ in nature.

Sam feels his heart beat picking up.

_Why is Sam's heart beat speeding up?_

Sam swears that he is heterosexual but even as a heterosexual young man Sam can tell this guy is a 10. Everything from his looks to his voice to the smell of leather and diesel emitting off of him.

 

Dean licks his pink lips. “Don't you be worrin' bout it sweetheart.”

 

Sam thinks that his heart is beating so ridiculously loud that it might even beat out of his chest. There's no way a guy this attractive could be gay. Bi? _Possibly._ Yet, Sam is not really getting that vibe off of him either. But before Sam could even configure a _straight_ thought in his head, the front driver's door opens and Bobby slides in. Sam couldn't hold back the faintest of giggles that escaped his mouth as he watched Dean glowering at the back of Bobby's head with pure malice.

_If Dean wasn't in handcuffs._

 

“Alright, Sam, Castiel is going to drive your car home for you. We'll drop our little felon here off at the station and then I'll take you home and have a nice long chat with your father,” Bobby stated matter-of-factly.

 

Sam slouches. Now he's not only feeling guilty but also strangely jealous. Dean seems tough but if four or five big guys corner him? Sam shivers, brushing off the thought. He really wished there was something he could do to save Dean from serving prison time.

 

Bobby puts the car in drive.

Sam and Dean share one last lingering look as Sam silently promises that he's not only going to get Dean out of there but he's also gonna get him the money to fix his car.

 

**tbc**

 


	3. Welcome to Hell

The knife glinted in the shards of sickly light that spilled into the cell from beyond the rusted bars. Slowly, John curled his calloused fingers and brought the edge of his blade to his thumbnail. He caught an edge, then shaved off the nail's ragged end, giving little thought to the chance of accidentally slicing the sensitive flesh beneath. A crescent of grimy keratin fell into his lap and lost itself in between the folds of his once orange jumpsuit. He stuck out his thumb and scrutinized his handiwork; deciding he was satisfied with the job, he turned his attention to the next finger.

 

_Nails are still growing, not dead yet._

_Beautiful._

 

He stared out into the vast, two story hall beyond his cell. The boys were worked up tonight.

 

Most times, John could block out the general din that perpetuated throughout the cell blocks during the night, but this evening, he couldn't ignore the thrum of agitation that prickled just beneath the usual snarls and bellowed threats. Even the lead-faced guards were shuffling nervously from foot to foot. Something big was sneaking up on Cell Block 27, and the rising anticipation sparked rapidly throughout the rusted bars of the countless cells.

 

Suddenly, there was a loud clatter against the bars next to John's ears as a grizzled bone was boomeranged at his head. He flinched: his knife slipped and nicked the tip of his finger.

“God damn-it BTK! What-da-fuck is your problem?”

 

There was a throaty chuckle, “How's your manicure coming, Johnny?”

 

John shot a glare into the cell two doors down. There, fiddling with another bone, was an ugly bear of a man, a wide grin and sweat plastered over his features. Even with a whole empty cell between them, John couldn't escape the other man's stench.

 

“Such a temper,” Dennis Rader—aka 'BTK'—continued, his hideous smirk never fading. “It will get you into trouble one of these days.”

 

John ducked to avoid the second bone as it whizzed between cells. BTK had recently taken to pelting John with all manner of scavenged objects, and while the casual threats had gotten old months ago, John couldn't help but curl his lip back at his block-mate. BTK just snorted, pig-like, at the crack in John's typically aloof air. For a moment, John toyed with the thought of hurling back a similar retort. Or, even better, the knife he smuggled in in his hands.

 

_Don't be a fucking idiot._ The man winced the idea away. Start a fight with the 6'7” 260lbs, Godfather like, stink-of-a-man known as BTK and John would be swallowing teeth in no time.

 

The electric air in Block 27 was getting to John, he decided. Worming into his blood. Making him want to punch somebody. Hard. Judging by the rising level of anxious noise that ricocheted around the Block, all the others were feeling the same way. But above the din of restless criminals, one sound rose, and it iced John's veins.

 

It was the barking of dogs; someone was coming to give Block 27 a visit.

 

He'd barely completed the grim thought before the Block erupted in raucous bellows and hoots. Over the vulgar cacophony, John heard the metallic creak and slam as the Block's security doors were bypassed. The baying of the guard dogs added to the painful noise levels, which usually meant only one thing: a new prison.

 

And a very well-known one, John guessed. That was the one explanation for the Block's rabid welcome. Judging by the volume alone, it was probably some infamous criminal; a rapist, or maybe even a serial murderer. Men like that might have been internally punished in other prisons, but not here. In here, such chargers were worn like Golden Stars: badges of brutal power and dominance.

 

As the new prisoner was being escorted down the long hall that was Block 27, the roars followed; then John realized that they weren't praising at all. The inmates were jeering at the new kid on the block.

 

“Fucking _pig_!”

“Pretty _dog,_ how 'bout you come up in my cell?”

“We'll fix those good looks of yours up, asshole. Just you wait!”

“You're right were _you_ belong, pretty boy!”

 

John's brow twitched skyward. Half of him was amused. Whoever was coming was ' _pretty'_ and there's two things inmates hate: child molesters and good-looking men. Whilst the other half of him felt a minute pinch of empathy for the guy. When it comes to mastering the art of showering with a bunch of sex deprived, horny, six foot something, violent men absolutely nobody escapes some form of sexual harassment up in this bitch.

 

But there's only so much empathy John could spare. If the guy landed in this prison, especially this block of this prison, he must of fucked right up and big time. But where the hell are they going to put him—

 

_Oh shit._ John glanced horrified at the empty bunk above him. Randall's old spot. The spot was empty—had been ever since Randall got himself slaughtered.

 

_Fuck._ He was passed due for a new cellmate.

 

Sure as shit, they were going to throw this attractive bastard right into John's cell. And right when he had finally earned himself some peace and quiet too.

 

The barking and yelling was nearly on top of him. John was quick to slip his smuggled knife behind his back; just when his ears began to ring, five dark figures with three leashed and muzzled dogs strode right up to his own barred door and halted. One was the infamous and pudgy-faced Jailer, three were common guards, and the last was the new prisoner: handcuffed and scared shitless.

 

“Shut up! All of you all!”

The Jailer's orders were easily lost in the sea of mocking roars. John watched as the scowling man yanked a pistol from his belt and aimed at random.

“I said, SHUT UP!”

 

Three gunshots exploded into the hall. Like a rabid animal beaten momentarily out of its madness, the orange-jump-suited hoard that was Block 27 fell quiet; even the lean crazed guard dogs held their slimy tongues for a few seconds.

 

“That's more like it. Goddamn pack of yappin' mutts...the dogs too.”

 

The Jailer jammed his pistol back into its holster and glared evenly at the cells around him. The prisoners might have been menaced into temporary silence, but they still pressed hungrily up against the iron limits of their cages, arms and wild-eyed expressions oozing out into the hall beyond. Their heavy breathing was a lukewarm wind within the Block.

 

Except for the ones whose cells were close to the dogs; those men kept their distance from the bars, making sure to keep their throats out of easy lunging range.

 

The hounds were always more terrifying than the guards that handled them. _Always._ Something about them triggered a deep, primal fear that mere men simply couldn't invoke. From the dark of his bunk, John could see the monsters breathe, their mangy black coats rippling over tight muscles as they thrashed against their heavy, sharp-pronged collars. The yellowish foam from their mouths bubbled out through the steel mesh of their muzzles, and they all watched the new prisoner with rolling white eyes.

 

Suddenly, one of the larger ones snapped viciously at the prisoner's thigh, triggering the other dogs to spiral into a barking frenzy. The guard holding the big bastard mutt jerked it up by the leash, pulling its front claws up off the grated floor. He reeled back a broad hand and thwacked the hollow of his animal's neck, then turned to give the new inmate an impatient push.

 

“Come on, the damn dogs are losing it! Uncuff him and push him in already!”

 

The Jailer anchored a quiet glare on the guard from the corner of his eye. “Watch your tongue, or I'll tear it out and feed it to that flea-bag o' yours for a midnight snack.”

 

The guard gave a reactionary snarl, but kept his mouth pointedly shut and his dog on a shorter leash.

 

The Jailer then smiled, slowly, as if suddenly remembering something interesting.

“Well, what do you know, Johnny? Just what you wanted, a new young cellmate to look after. Happy early birthday!”

 

John wedged himself even further back into his bunk. From behind the bars, he could just make out the Jailer giving him a yellowed sneer.

 

“Be nice to him, Johnny,” came the Jailer's phlegm-slicked voice. “Don't want your new best friend to end up like poor old Randall, now do you?”

 

BTK's bulky form emerged from the shadows of his cell. “Don't worry, we'll take good care of him.”

 

“Hah! Of course ya will, Dennis. Because we all know how well you and your boys play with others...”

 

The Jailer dragged a ringful of keys from one of his pockets; John watched, eyes narrowed, as the scheming man uncuffed the new prisoner.

 

There was a metallic cacophony of clatters as the mess of locks and deadbolts on the door were painstakingly closed. Finally, a dull clack echoed through the hall when the last lock fell into place, and the iron-barred door creaked open.

 

John stared wide-eyed and silent at his new cellmate. This was always the worst part, the initial being locked in with a stranger, who presumably committed murder and will do God only knows what to you once those fucking guards walk away. But John wasn't the only one who was nervous. No, no. There was a quiet click as handcuffs were unlocked, and the the prisoner, already decked out in the standard issue orange jumpsuit, was thrust roughly into the cell. John could smell his anxious sweat.

 

“This is your new home, asshole,” laughed the Jailer, swaggering into the doorway. “Three hots and a bunk, not bad for free, eh?”

 

John could hear his blockmates stalking within their cells, eye glinting maliciously as they sized up their new prey. The Jailer must have sense the lurking prisoner's hunger too because he turned to face the rows of cells that ran up and down the hall.

“I'm guessing by that rousing welcome that we're already somewhat familiar with our latest addition!”

 

There was almost no response from the skulking pack, but John felt the old electricity of anticipation rising again. The guards shifted uncomfortably and their dogs growling doubled.

 

The Jailer only smirked. “Dean Smith everybody. Here on felony assault with an unregistered deadly weapon and attempted armed robbery charges. _Yeah,_ there's murderers in here that will tear you to pieces.”

He drew it out slowly, letting the embarrassment really soak in as Block 27 erupted into a fit of laughter at those _weak_ charges. The kid must of really pissed off the wrong person to end up on the one Block of the prison that housed the harshest most violent inmates and the criminally insane. A crime like that seemed like child's play to this block.

 

John grinned; every fist they slammed into Dean's shit-eating face would feel practically sanctified for a crime like that. Dean hadn't committed the ultimate crime of murder yet, however, in a block like this, if he was going to survive he was going to have to become a murderer. This place would decay any morals or ethics the poor bastard might have.

 

The Jailer coughed violently, pulling out a handkerchief to spit into. “Your nothing in here, kid. You do not even have a name anymore. From now on, you're known as...” the Jailer stepped forward studying Dean's reactions to the closeness. Daring him to challenge his supreme authority.

“Prisoner 073241-DX. Got that?”

 

Dean glared at his captor, but said nothing. Distantly, John was impressed that the newcomer hadn't pissed his pants already. The Jailer, however, was not.

“Awe, is the poor little puke too scared to shoot his ugly mouth off?”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

John could hear the scummy smirk in the fat Jailer's guffaw of laughter. “What do ya know, that's our motto here! See? You're practically family already!”

 

The prisoner's head jerked as though the Jailer's words had caught him right in the jaw. Clearly eager to be done with all the pleasantries, the Jailer snorted and spat again. “Hah. I've got nothing more to say to you, DX,” he rasped. “Welcome to the El Dorado Corrections Facility, fucker.”

 

And then the door slammed close; locking John in with the son of a bitch. Out in the hall, the Jailer screamed for the prisoners to get their asses back to their bunks, and the guards made their exit, the baying of their dogs fading out to nothing.

 

John watched, closely, sizing up his new cellmate. Dean was young—couldn't of been older than 25. He was a good looking dude, which isn't going to do him any favors in here. Only thing that he had working in his favor was that he was a pretty big guy, especially for being so young—then again, almost everybody in here was a pretty big guy. But this one wasn't quite like the others: he carried himself differently. Dean blinked awkwardly at John pushing past him to toss his single bag of personal items onto the top bunk.

 

John couldn't help but smile. He cleared his throat quietly, “Name is John. Don't mind the blood up there?”

 

Dean glanced back at John curiously; his eyes were a vibrant shade of emerald green. Having got his attention, John gestured to the copious bloodstains splattered thickly across the sheets of the top bunk. They hadn't bothered to clean it up yet. Probably would leave it until it was almost time for the semi-annual inspection.

 

“It's Randall's,” John explained.

 

Dean's stare didn't waver nearly as much as John had expected it to, however, Dean's fist did curl nervously to the ready. “What...the fuck...”

 

“Don't worry the blood is long dried,” John informed him, as if that would offer some sort of mild comfort.

 

“...Did you do something to him?” Dean finished, his voice steady but his stance anxious.

 

Unexpectedly, John found himself hesitating at the question; he heard BTK laugh cruelly, knowingly, from the cell two doors down. But the moment passed, and he recovered quickly.

 

“Thanks for thinking that I'm that deadly but I really can't rightly take credit. If inmates want to kill ya, we'll catch you in the yard. Less messy that way.” John shook his head. “No. This was...Crowley's handiwork.”

 

“Crowley?”

 

“Hah! You mean you didn't get the 'official' introduction? Lucky you, Crowley is the head warden around here...meaner. Than. Shit. Too.”

 

Dean was still just staring. “The head warden did this?”

 

John laughed. The kid had a lot to learn about prison corruption. “Ya...Randall crossed Crowley. Got caught trying to steal some keys right out of the old bastard's back pocket.” John lowered his voice for theatrical effect. “And Crowley put him straight; sicked his personal guard dog on him. We all knew he was off his meds, but even then, it was some fairly sick shit. Hell, I was covered in blood by the end—''

 

“'Nuff said,” Dean ordered, squinting at John. Dean flipped his bunk mattress, his face was weirdly calm.

 

A thin chuckle emanated once again from the cell opposite of John and Dean.

 

Moments later, BTK's laughter was echoing all around them, and John realized that many of the other convicts were still very much awake.

“Playin' all hard with that attitude—don't worry we'll have you on your hands N' knees in no time.”

 

Dean snapped up. BTK had resumed his typical stance, bulging arms draped casually around the bars of the far cell. Now that he had Dean's attention, he flashed him a smile filled up with long, unclean teeth.

 

“Me and my crew _really_ run this place, DX, so it'ld be easier for everybody if you'ld drop the hard attitude and show your fears.” BTK grinned, “If not we'll find yer fears and ram them straight up your tight ass!”

 

If BTK's words were scraping nerves, Dean didn't let it show, choosing instead to merely inspect his mildly bruised knuckles. John was almost disappointed...

 

“Sure, go right ahead: feel free to threaten me all you want,” Dean suddenly spoke up. “But if you do decide to act on your threats just know I _will_ fight you with everything I've got.”

Dean's voice wasn't angry or even particularly invest. Just really frigging tired.

 

At this, BTK pushed out his bottom lip in an ugly mock-pout. “You'll regret that, DX.”

 

Eyes cast down at his hands, John waited for a scathing response, but the only sound was the breathing of the countless prisoner, hanging onto BTK's every word.

 

Finally when John could no longer stand the awful silence he snacked the palms of his hands together. “Well that's BTK...He's an asshole but he does have a really mean crew...You got balls kid.”

 

“You tell em' Johnny! It's up to you to teach your new pet sum manners or we'll be coming after you when we're done with him.” BTK pulled back from the bars, and the crushing presence of the other inmates followed suit, melting back into the blackness. It was over, John knew: their work was done... _at least for tonight._

 

Dean was laying on his bunk at this point; his own arms wrapped around his self as if _that_ would somehow shield him from this horrible place.

 

Recoiling fully into his own bunk, John, shifted around a bit searching for a comfy place that didn't exist, then finally closed his eyes for a few frayed minutes of pseudo-sleep.

 

“Twenty years.”

 

John opened a single eye. He waited a few moments, but nothing more came from Dean. He threw an uphill glance at the bottom of Dean's mattress.

 

“It's not a life sentence,” Dean explained quietly. “But it's still _twenty_ years.”

 

At this point, John let a barking staccato laugh escape from his thin lips. Once again, the laughter was mimicked by the horde of prisoners that were still listening in. John grinned at their relentlessness.

 

“Don't kid yourself, DX,” he said, settling back down onto his crappy mattress. “In here, twenty years is nineteen years longer than a life sentence.”

 

**tbc**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updates; I scrapped my first idea for this chapter, then decided it might be interesting to focus on a prison-centric story for a few chapters. I'm liking the way this turned out so far so let me know what ya'll think. (-: Fun facts: this is an actual prison in Kansas, the character 'BTK' is based off a real life inmate and, yes, John Winchester is officially Dean Smith's cell mate. XD


	4. Where There's a Will There's a Way

Sam reprimands himself for several aspects of his personality. He's anxious approximately 90% of the time. Whilst the other 10% of the time he's thoroughly stressed out. He doesn't have a lot of friends because—up until just last year—he was a short cutesy child who practically wore a target on his back for all the neighborhood _'friendly'_ bullies. He doesn't have any siblings, just a distant father who is at work all the time and a house maid that practically raised him.

 

Though, it's not all bad; there are good things about Sam's life and personality that he enjoys. He has the uncanny ability to schmooze his way out of or into anything he desires with his extensive, cajole vocabulary and award-winning smile. And if, by chance, either of those two things fail him his voluminous wallet containing numbers that most people only dream of seeing will _always_ do the trick.

 

Except...for some reason tonight. Castiel—Sam was informed he was raised by nuns and suddenly the name made sense to him—has extremely righteous views when it comes to prosecuting; come in with a court case expecting to leave with a five-hundred dollar fine and a slap on the wrist and Cas will have you leaving with a five _year_ sentence and several crippling kicks to the abdomen.

 

That's basically what he did to Dean Smith. Sam—who prides his self in knowing a lot about law—reassured Dean that he would receive a light sentence for having no previous documented court offenses. However, Cas had other plans. He convinced a jury that Dean was a threat to everybody for shooting up a random gas station and that it was just an unknown amount of time before he went crazy and shot up the neighborly preschool yard.

 

_Twenty-years!_

 

The bastard had earned Dean a twenty-year sentence in a maximum security prison. Dean didn't deserve that...especially for something that Sam, himself, may have caused. He _had_ shot at Dean first and for that Sam will do everything in his power to get Dean out of prison. Everything—

 

“Sam, I don't want your money. I'm head lawyer here at this firm appointed directly by _your_ father; I _have_ money,” Cas informed, he hadn't even bothered to look at Sam when he spoke.

 

“B-but I-I—''

 

“But nothing, Sam. Only way I'll even bother to request another trial for some _'John Doe'_ off the streets who, by the way, has nobody who came forth claiming him, is if your father gives me orders to. And both you and I know how well your father is trusting you at the moment. If I were you I would forget about that criminal; it's probably for the better that you're not around him anyways. He seemed like a bad influence...”

 

Sam's shoulders slouched in disappointment. This man was going to be problematic unless if Sam could think his way through this. Cas is righteous. Not heartless.

 

_Think Sam._

_Think!_

 

Cas arose ready to politely show Sam the way out.

 

Sam bolted up, “Dean!” Sam paused, eyes widening to the size of quarters.

 

Cas was looking at him if he was Sam's judge, jury and executioner.

_He was._

 

“—D-Dean...he's my brother.” This was a complete lie. Sam doesn't quite know why he had said this. He'll muddle it down to desperation for now.

“Y-yeah...” Sam continued on.

“Pastor Micheal informed me that my father had had a child before me but that he was too young to care for the child so he had given him up for adoption. I did some research and found out who my brother was.” Sam smiled condescendingly. _Hell,_ he would believe himself.

 

Cas inhaled sharply. He looked irritated with Sam but not yet angry. “Sam, you didn't think for one second that this information might have been paramount to mention this to me _before_ I prosecuted him?”

 

And now was Sam's moment. He briefly thought of a kicked puppy for his inspiration and whipped up one of the saddest looks he could possibly manage. He let his bangs droop in front of his eyes, he angled his head down as if he was devastated and—for his big finish—he allowed a thin layer of moister to gloss over his bright hazel eyes.

_Hell,_ he deserves a freaking award for this act. “I-I'm sorry, I was dither about it and made the incorrect decision.”

 

Cas slouched, sauntering back to his chair. Sam could of swore that he heard Cas mouth the word _'kids'_ but Sam would let the tiresome assumption that ' _all_ teenagers make horrible decisions' slide. Just like Cas was about to let Sam's half-assed story slide because Sam's daddy signs Cas's weekly paycheck.

Cas sighed, “I'll appeal his case and see if I can get him acquitted.”

 

_That was it?? Man...that was like stealing candy from a baby—_

 

“IF,” Cas continued.

 

_There's always an 'if' or a 'but.'_

 

“If your dad confirms this story.”

 

_Fuck!_

Sam's heart was pounding in his chest, he was sweating bullets as he swallowed excess saliva down his trachea harshly. Damning baby blue eyes were piercing straight into his soul ripping apart his lie syllable by agonizing syllable. It took everything Sam had and more to appear calm and collected. “I don't think contacting my father about this issue would be a wise decision.”

 

Breaking up his normal stoic features, the tiniest of smirks found it's way upon Castiel's face. This smirk wasn't to be confused with kindness. Oh no. This smirk was smug and brash. This was a smirk Cas would wear _only_ when he knew the accused was about to become the convicted. “Ah,” Cas gasped for the sake of mocking melodrama only. “And why exactly might _you_ not want me to tell your father, Sam?”

 

Sam fidgeted forward. If he didn't have one last punch in him this would have been the part that he would break down and beg Castiel not to tell on him. BUT—

“Because my daddy— _your boss_ —might not be too happy with _you_ if he were to find out that you're the one responsible for getting his first-born son locked up for twenty years.”

 

Sam wanted to smile like a kid in a candy store at Cas's reaction. It was priceless to watch the trench coat wearing prosecutor's demeanor change from confident and domineering to disorientated and stressed out. Cas irritably stapled a couple sheets of paper together for lack of anything better to do. “I'll get back on Dean Smith's case right away Mr. Wesson,” Cas said skeptically.

 

Instant relief washed over Sam. He had been tensing his jaw so incredibly tight that he was sure it would feel as if he had been punched in the face in the morning. Cas was pissed but it was over for now. Sam had gotten what he wanted and he was one step closer to getting Dean out of prison.

 

Once Sam is successful in getting Dean out of prison he's going to look him straight into those big beautiful green eyes of his and ask him if he's heterosexual or not. And if Dean is straight then Sam is going to lock his self up in his bedroom, have a good cry and shoot himself in the foot repeatedly for going through all this trouble for nothing.

 

Realizing Castiel was looking at him oddly Sam cleared his voice. This was no place for fantasizing about possible sexual escapades. “Thank you...We'll be in touch.”

 

**888888888888888888888888888888888**

 

There were no lights in the long, narrow room; the only illumination came from the rows upon rows of televisions that smothered the main wall. Each screen displaying the black and white image of a different area within the vast prison compound. A handful of gray-uniformed men and women, each perched rigidly in their computer chairs, were scanning the array of surveillance televisions with dog-tired eyes. Every minute or so they would lift a stiff hand to press some combination of buttons on the complicated control panel before them, and one of the screens would blip soundlessly from one image to another. From the gate lodge, to the currently empty recreation yard, to the mess hall, to the individual cells; nothing escaped the prying eyes of El Dorado's security cameras.

 

Slipping the miniature bottle of Craig back into the fold of his lightly armored jacket, Crowley raised his glass to his perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth and took a long, smooth sip. He kept a steady gaze locked on the wall of televisions in front of him, playing with the glass in his hand.

 

“Sir? Was there...something you wanted?”

 

Crowley's eyes flicked over the younger attractive woman—one of the many custodians that worked here. The staff member's eyes were trained directly on Crowley's; never straying, even for a moment, to roam anywhere that the ill-tempered man might consider to be undignified. Knowingly, Crowley smiled, relishing in the power that came along with supreme authority.

 

Crowley wondered distantly which unnerved his underlings more; his menacing grin that he had practiced to be permanently carved upon his face, or the rumor of his special 'correctional methods.' He took another swig of his favorite liquor.

 

Or maybe, he contemplated, it was dear Lilith that really got their little hearts pumping.

 

He glanced down, then smiled approvingly at his lovely black hound. She was planted to his heels, ears perked and sharp snout straight ahead. Ironically, the bitch was utterly blind, but she still locked her glassy white eyes on each of the custodians whenever they spoke or coughed. Through the leather straps of her muzzle, Crowley could see her tongue occasionally slip over still bloody teeth. He knew she was waiting patiently for the signal, the snap of fingers that would release her to leap up and lock her gorgeous, powerful jaws around—

 

“...Sir?”

 

Crowley sniffed. “It appears that a new prisoner was booked into Block 27 last week without my knowledge. You understand that I cannot have inmates coming and going without my supervision, Charlie. Do you know where in 27 he's currently being detained?”

 

Charlie nodded shortly and turned to the control board, chewing her lip slightly. “The only bunk filled in Block 27 last week was...bunk 207, looks like.”

 

“Ah yes. Randall Kramer's old bunk, if I'm not mistaken.” Crowley said, leaning forward on the board as he gulped the rest of his shot of Craig down. “Let's have a look at the surveillance cameras, eh?”

 

The control panel flashed as Charlie's fingers danced over the various buttons. Her gaze rose to the televisions, and she gestured to one that had blipped to the gray-scale image of a small, square cell. Within those four iron corners, there were two men. One was John Winchester here for the murder of his then pregnant spouse. _Sick fuck._ The other was a man curled up in the fetal position in his bunk. Crowley cocked his head.

“Strange that the Jailer didn't think it pertinent to contact me before assigning this man to a bunk. What prisoner is this?”

 

Charlie pressed a few keys, and an identification number flashed up on the screen: 073241-DX

 

“Uh, it looks like it's prisoner 073—''

 

“That means nothing Charlie. Give me a name, please.”

 

There were a few frantic moments as Charlie scrambled to punch more buttons—her lip chewing was getting worse. A moment later, Crowley watched as the identification number was replaced by a recognizable name.

 

Too recognizable, Crowley realized with a twitch of his brow.

 

Charlie quirked her head like she'd just read some obscure and interesting fact. “Dean Smith? Huh. No way...Wasn't that the guy that got away with robbing you at gunpoint awhile back?”

 

The surveillance room went deathly still; Crowley began to pour himself another shot of Craig, Lilith's growl occupied the suddenly claustrophobic room, and Charlie looked like she was going to chew right through her lip.

 

The glances of the other custodians were ripped from their respective screens as a muffled shriek shattered the silence.

 

“I have that brat Dean Smith in _my_ prison?” Crowley asked, calmly, jabbing his—now broken—custom-made crystal drinking glass right into the corners of Charlie's eyes.

 

“Y-yes!!” Charlie wailed.

 

“For six whole fucking days, I've had the one and _only_ brat that has _ever_ gotten away with humiliating me? And _no one_ here thought for a second to inform me of this?”

 

Charlie just screamed and clawed at the hands that held her head steady. Crowley made a disappointed clicking sound and heaved the thrashing staff member into the control panel. Lilith danced eagerly on her hindquarters, muscles visibly straining but her signal had not been given, and the animal never budged.

 

Crowley turned to the custodian sitting beside Charlie; the whites of his eyes gleamed with horror. “You! Could you _kindly_ inform me of how long Smith will be in our care?”

 

The second custodian wasted no time in attacking the keyboard, and a wall of cryptic information raced across his own screen.

 

“I-it's a twenty-year sentence, sir. For felony assault with an unregistered deadly weapon and attempted armed robbery charges.”

 

White flashed through Crowley's vision. For a few seconds, his hand curled into a volatile fist. Lilith's fur rose and the air crackled with danger once again. Instinctively, the warden groped around his jacket pocket, snatched out a tube of white pills, and swallowed a tiny handful. His pale face instantly slackened, and he permitted a deep breath to flow through his lungs.

 

Something about the familiarity of those charges had clearly struck a nerve with the tyrannical warden. Kevin had heard the rumor: that about four years ago—right before Kevin himself had started to work in this hellhole—that some kid had gotten away with robbing the warden. Stole his Cadillac Escalade, his wallet, his cell phone, hell, Kevin had even heard that the armed burglar had made Crowley strip down to his boxers snatching the very clothes right off his back.

 

Crowley is a lot of things and resourceful happens to be one of his best qualities. All he had to do to find out who had committed the crime was bring a few snitches face-to-face with his beloved Lilith and their mouths would immediately start to dance to his corrupt, sporadic beat. ' _Dean Smith.'_ Was the name of the guy who had robbed him but having no solid evidence to tie anybody to the crime let alone a 'Dean Smith' Crowley was forced to legally let it go...Only problem is Crowley doesn't let anything go. Ever. Crowley was just as infuriated about the crime today as he was the day it happened. If this 'Dean Smith' happened to be the 'Dean Smith' that Crowley was looking to get even with then the poor bastard is going to be subjugated to a horrendously painful, chagrin and lingering death.

 

The warden glanced down at Kevin. “Kevin, do tell me, how much longer is it until we wake our boys up for breakfast?”

 

Charlie—crumpled into a pathetic heap on the floor now—just pawed at her bleeding eyes and whimpered. Kevin glanced nervously down at the digital watch on his thin wrist.

“About fifteen minutes, sir.”

 

“Excellent. Now, someone take Charlie to the hospital, please. The lady and I need to pay Block 27 a short visit.”

 

**tbc**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have patience folks. Sam and Dean will eventually have their reunion after I have my fun horrifying Dean in prison first. ;-)


	5. The Grifter and The Fox Trap

Dean was having another damn nightmare.

 

John glared at the bottom of Dean's bunk like he was willing it to burst into flames. He couldn't see Dean, but he could hear the creaking of his bunk as he tossed fitfully, and the low, sleep-muddled groans were impossible to shut out.

 

“Wait...mm...Dad, no...”

 

Over a week, and it was still as bad as the night they'd first thrown the asshole in here. Sure, there was no shortage of disturbing noises that emanated through the two-story prison block during the so-called 'quiet hours', but this was worse somehow. Something about the way the young inmate whined about his daddy pissed everyone off more than usual.

 

“Is that DX crying again?” A voice cut through the darkness from somewhere down the hall. “Oh, for the love of—someone shut him up!”

 

“Yeah, Johnny!” someone on the first level hissed. “Deal with that asshole already!”

 

John heaved up onto his elbows. “You deal with him!” he spat back. “I'm not his fucking wet-nurse.”

 

From the top-bunk, Dean snorted, then heaved a tortured, moaning sigh.

 

“No...get out...rrrgh...”

 

“John, I swear to the Almighty God, if you don't get that boy to zip it up in the next thirty seconds, I'm going to skullfuck the both of you. I _mean_ it.”

 

_Ah, shit._ That sounded a lot like Azazel, one of BTK's bully friends. The man didn't speak up very often, but when he did, he always meant business. John's old cowardice reared its head, and he flipped over in his bunk to anchor a weary scowl to the unsettled man above him.

 

“Hey, DX. Fuckstick. Wake up.”

 

Dean's face was buried in his arms; he barely flinched.

 

“Hn....agh...Sam...”

 

That one was new; the bastard seemed to be only slipping deeper into his nightmares. Giving a little growl of frustration, John hoisted himself out of his bunk in order to give himself access to Dean's head. He then raised his hand back, lined it up with Dean's head, and delivered a good, solid slap.

 

Dean bolted up in his bunk and, in spite of the fact that he was still half-asleep, his hand shot out and nearly caught John's hand before he could retract it safely back. The young inmate gave a groggy grunt and rubbed his neck like it was sore.

“Goddammit. What the fuck was that?”

 

“Happy, Azazel!” John yelled out to the hall, then turned to Dean. “You're keeping everyone up with your crying again,” he muttered. “Whimpering like a goddamn bitch in heat, I swear...”

 

Out of sheer habit, he waited for the scathing comeback, but none came. Of course, Dean wasn't like the others; he didn't lash out when provoked, never snapped or took the bait the other prisoners always laid out for him. Hell, he didn't even throw his muscle around. John had seen this before. 'Dean Smith' was probably an assertive, obnoxious asshole on the streets but in here he was outnumbered twenty to one. Dean wasn't as stupid as he looked. Holding your tongue in here will usually lower your chances of being ass-raped or shanked.

 

No, he just let the comment slide off his hunched back, sighing gruffly and pinching the bridge of his nose.

 

It was then that John noticed that Dean was sporting a painful-looking black eye.

“Wow, who did you piss off?”

 

To no one's surprise, Dean acted like he hadn't heard and simply began to climb out of his bunk to put his boots on.

 

“Come on, shiners are a dime-a-dozen in here. I promise I won't tell BTK you let someone sock you...”

 

At this, a sharp psst came out from the darkness of the cell on the other side of John. Twisting around, John saw that the thin little man who occupied the neighboring cell had latched onto the bars like some kind of flesh-and-bone leech. He was a quiet one; John couldn't even remember the last time he'd seen the lanky bastard creep out of his bunk.

_What did everyone call him again? 'Death?' Yeah, that's it. They call him 'Death' because he was nothing but skin and bone. Hell, if anybody knew his actual name._

 

“You don't have to tell BTK. He knows,” the other con whispered, eyes bugged out. “He knows, because he is the one that did it. I saw it myself.”

 

John leaned over in his bunk; he was doing his best to hide his amusement. “Do go on.”

 

“I don't know what exactly went down. We were all in the Yard, and BTK didn't like the look on DX's face or something of that nature...Then there was this _crash!_ ” Death slapped his spidery hands against the metal bars to demonstrate his point. “Old DX over there was all slammed up against the wall, and BTK was just stomping away and glaring daggers at everybody.”

 

John raised his brow at the gangly man, then glanced passed Dean over into BTK's cell. He was about to ask for confirmation from BTK himself, but stopped himself short as he realized that the convict in question wasn't there.

 

“Took him away.”

 

John jerked back to face Death, eyes narrowed.

 

“Away where?”

 

In El Dorado, there were a lot of places that 'away' could be, none of them pleasant. The man sucked in his hollowed cheeks. “Chemical shock, I think.”

 

Instantly understanding, John nodded, but he couldn't quite suppress the shiver.

 

Chemical shock therapy. It felt exactly like it sounded, and even the El Dorado's toughest bastards were more than a little shaken afterwards. And that didn't even include the mental wounds that persisted. Chem shock wasn't punishment so much as El Dorado''s patented exercise in agony, cruelty, and severe human rights violations. If you asked a prisoner, his eyes would deaden, and he would just call it Hell on Earth.

 

Selection for shock sessions was usually random—of course, you were more likely to get chosen if you were a regular pain in the ass, or if one of the guards had it out for you. John had the good fortune to have only been through it twice himself, and he still got the twitches every once in awhile.

 

But for now, John was pleased at finally having a grasp on the latest developments and he threw a smile over his shoulder. “Well, DX, looks like the Chem Shock Karma Police exacted your revenge for you.”

 

Before Dean could respond, an agonizingly loud buzzer tore through Block 27, and John sighed. The lights all snapped on as a gravel-filled voice began to sing over the PA system.

 

“Wakey, wakey, bleed and breaky. You maggots know the drill.”

 

Without exchanging glances, John, Dean, and several hundred other prisoners all clambered out of their comfortless bunks and lumbered to the back walls of their cells. Nose to the iron, feet shoulder-width apart, and hands crossed behind their heads, they waited as the familiar barking of guard dogs filled the Block.

 

The doors to the guard quarters opened, the hounds scrambled in on their short leashes, and the guards positioned themselves at the entrances to each cell. The clicks of the opening locks echoed over the cement, and it wasn't long before John heard the clang of steel-capped boots on grate as a guard entered his and Dean's cell. He'd been through this tedious—and often abusive—morning routine more times than he cared to recall: every prisoner was cuffed by a guard, and then they were all herded down into the meal hall for their sparse breakfast.

 

Numbly, John waited to be dragged out into the hall with the others. But the firm hand on his wrist never moved, and he remained motionless with his face against the wall. Moments passed, and John could hear Dean and the other prisoners being shuffled out down to the hall; his initial confusion turned to alarm.

 

It wasn't until he heard the low growling that he understood just how bad his day was going to be.

 

“Good morning, Johnny.”

 

The flinch was impossible to control. Instantly, he matched the voice up to a face—a horrible, power-crazed-smirking face—and the apprehension in his empty stomach knotted up into pure dread. Fueled by his tangible fear, the growling kicked up a tiny notch.

 

_God, no._

 

“...Hello, Crowley.”

 

John felt a snort of laughter against his neck. “Ah, you know my voice. Cute.”

 

“Actually, it was your bitch's lovely voice I recognized.” It was the truth: nowadays, John could identify Lilith's growl from a mile away. Most of the older cons here could.

 

“So, I see you've managed to keep yourself out of trouble. Good boy.”

 

His face was pushed up against the coldness of the wall, but John still managed to keep his voice relatively even. “You know me. I'm crafty.”

 

“Oh, don't I. I might even go so far to say that your so-called craftiness is the only thing that's kept your skin on you all these years.”

 

Crowley must have slackened Lilith's leash, because there was the clicking of nails on metal, and then the huge, ugly beast was right under him. Her neck, ragged with scars from her pronged collar, was nearly level with his groin, and he could feel her hot breath on the inside of his thigh as she nosed about blindly. The other inmates were long since gone, John knew, already marching towards their breakfast. He wondered if a scream would even be loud enough to reach the faraway mess hall...

 

“In fact,” the warden continued. “It's your clever mind that I'm hoping to take advantage of today.”

 

“Oh yeah? In regards to what?”

 

“Your new friend.”

 

John bit his lip. “...The kid.”

 

“Yes. Or 'DX', as you so affectionately call him.”

 

“So what, then?” John said irritably. “What do you want with him?”

 

The warden paused for the barest second.

 

“To break him.”

 

With this, Crowley released his vice-grip on John's wrists; the convict was quick to plaster his vulnerable back to the cell wall and face his warden—and his warden's damn pet. He saw where this was going; he saw the glint in Crowley's eyes, heard the tone in his slick voice.

 

“I just like to ensure my prison is a level playing field. It's better that way, don't you think? Gives the shadowy weasels like yourself a fighting chance.”

 

“No,” John breathed. His eyes dropped to the floor, but then he found himself staring down at a mouthful of bloody gums and razor-sharp fangs, so he just closed them. “No. Whatever fucked up scheme you're planning, keep me out of it.”

 

“Don't be such a disappointment.” The warden cocked his head to the side. “You were so enthusiastic about this with the others.”

 

“That was before. Maybe I've had a moral epiphany since then.”

 

“In two weeks? Dear Johnny, we both know you lack the depth of character for such things.” Crowley crossed his arms and winked. “Who knows, I might even be able to keep you out of the chem shock labs again.”

 

_Damn._ The offer was wildly tempting, but John knew he couldn't back down now. As nice as favors like that were, this was one of America's toughest prisons, and there was a price. There was always a price.

 

“I don't care. I'm _not_ getting involved again. Do your own dirty wor—''

 

The words were hardly formed before John felt Crowley's fist deep in his stomach, the force of it mashing his organs into his spine and his spine into the cement wall. Hugging his abdomen, he rasped once, then slid soundlessly to the floor.

 

“You don't _have_ a choice, Johnny.” Crowley's voice floated gently down to the prisoner. “You didn't before, and you certainly don't now.”

 

Pain and rage curled John's lip back; hatred seethed wordlessly through his bared teeth, and Lilith, sightless eyes just inches from his face, growled right back. Crowley didn't seem to mind the exchange, though. Clearing his throat, he reached into a pocket and produced a small white rectangle.

 

“Based on what I've heard, Dean's a hardass...he won't be cracked as easily as the others. We'll have to take a different approach than before. More...psychological. Now, this,” he said airily, peering down his sharp nose at the rectangle, “Is a letter addressed to Dean Smith. Arrived just a few minutes ago, would you believe.”

 

“What...the hell,” John choked out between pained coughs, “Do you want me...to do with that?”

 

Flashing a pearly smile that almost came off as genuine, Crowley tsked disapprovingly. “Come now, you know exactly what to do. Make him _suffer_.”

 

“How am I supposed to—''

 

“Please don't be dim, Johnny. You're 'crafty', remember? Read it out loud to your fellow prisoners. Taunt him with it. Give him paper cuts between the fingers with it while he sleeps. I don't care, just as long as we get the proverbial ball rolling. I'm positive you can think of something.”

 

The letter, encased in a crisp envelope, fluttered down into John's lap.

 

“Besides, you were oh so imaginative with Randall, weren't you?”

 

John's head snapped up, but the will to snarl had evaporated in an instant.

 

“Who knows, if you run out of ideas, perhaps you can draw upon those previous...methods...for inspiration. If I recall, they were rather effective. And you're just so handy with that little blade you managed to sneak in here.”

 

Crowley just laughed at the prisoner's empty eyes, eternally pleased by his ability to strike the sweetest nerves. Stepping nimbly back, the warden patted his thigh to recall Lilith to his side, then gestured to the cell door.

 

“Shall we?”

 

John's gaze fell from the warden's to the envelope resting in his lap. His eyes scanned the stencil-like typeface that embellished the face:

 

PROPERTY OF EL DORADO'S MAZIMUM SECURITY PENITENTIARY 

Contents: ONE (1) LETTER, PERSONAL

Recipient: PR. 073241-DX—SMITH, D.

Deliver to: CELL 207, BLOCK 27

Sender: WESSON, S.

Relationship to Recipient: [UNSPECIFIED]

 

There was a big red approved stamp over the words; unsurprisingly, John didn't recognize the sender's name.

 

“Yeah,” he said huskily, stuffing the letter up his orange sleeve. “I'm fucking starving.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, ya'll getta find out what Sammy wrote soon. ;-)

**Author's Note:**

> Hope ya'll enjoyed this one. I've written quite a bit on this fic and aim to update weekly. :-3
> 
> R&R!~


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